


Last Night You Ended up on Top of Costco with a Gun in Your Hand

by CaitClandestine



Category: Pierce the Veil
Genre: Highschool AU, M/M, The premise of this story is literally the title
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-03-20 05:06:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3637845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaitClandestine/pseuds/CaitClandestine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When pressed, they both agree they met on a Tuesday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The highest building in their little shitfuck town is Costco and on a Tuesday night it's completely deserted making it easy for Vic to slip silently across the empty parking lot to the back of the store, and the old iron steps leading to the roof of the building. It wasn't always a Costco, was in Vic’s childhood a metal fabrication workshop and before that a produce warehouse.

It's out of the way of 'downtown', on the edge of the industrial district, away from the glow of the city.

They never bothered to take the stairs down, or block them. It's probably not a priority for a huge company who's only goal is profit and for once, Vic is thankful for big business because he's not taking any chances.

He thuds up the steps one at a time, methodically, hands buried in the pockets of his hoodie, his left wrapped around the solid shape of his fathers old Smith & Wesson that he'd triple checked was loaded before he left the house.

If you were to ask him why he's on top of Costco with a gun in his pocket Vic couldn't really tell you. There's no doubt in his intentions, no hesitation in his carefully crafted plan but there's been no tipping point, no final trigger to pull him from the warmth of his home into the chilly night to make damn sure he's going to be good and dead before morning comes. It's just been a long few months of torture, trying to push past and find the good his parents keep talking about. But it didn't happen to them.

Vic's worst fear is of failure, that he won't bleed out fast enough and someone will find him or that drugs won't kill him and a jump wouldn't be fatal and maybe the angle of the gun is wrong.

It's why he's here, praying that on the off chance he isn't successful with his shot, that the resulting fall from the top of this crappy seller of bulk goods store will finish the job.

As he reaches the top Vic takes a moment to appreciate the view sprawled out beneath him like a finely woven carpet, the streets threads of gold and the moon silver. He hasn't written any notes even though he knows you're probably supposed to but what do you say to the ones you love the most anyway? How can you possibly explain away your death and try to spin sentences of comfort?

Vic knows he'll be missed, and will miss. His brother Mike, an hour away locked in his cell in a young offenders prison program and perhaps the guilt will surely kill him as well _but it is his fault isn't it?_ His parents just a mile away at their house, sleeping soundly and believing that when they wake up in the morning he'll be there to great them like always. Tony, the only person outside of his family that he can stand to have touch him any more.

He sits on the ledge that shapes the front of the building, the entrance and parking lot beneath his feet as he swings his legs over the edge, tries not to look down. Heights makes him dizzy, and he needs to focus.

He slides the gun out of his pocket and runs his hands over the metal, warm and solid beneath his fingers from his body heat, the sight of it quickening his hearts staccato beat. The idea of nosing the barrel through his hair _so pretty, like a little girls_ and pressing it against his head is terrifying. Truly and utterly terrifying.

It has to be done though, because he can't live like this any more. Can't stay inside forever, can't keep replaying everything over and over in his mind, lose hours of time curled in in the bottom of his closet or in the bathroom trying to prove he's in control by inching a razor into his skin, silently begging for a solace that never comes.

This the only way out he's got left.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jaime Preciado, given the option, actually prefers closing shifts. He's not a morning person but the night suits him well, the store cool and most often quiet as he alternates between manning the single open register and stocking the confectionery areas out front.

It's a step up from being one of the new lackeys who work opens and busy middays and he's thankful that for once he's found something he's not entirely awful at. Management trusts him to close the store most nights, not steal from them. Jaime will admit that sometimes it is awfully tempting as he counts his drawer but he knows it'd never be worth it.

He might not have a lot going for him, a boy who's bounced from so many foster families that he's pretty much been told there's no chance of him leaving his current group home until he ages out of the system but at least a clean record is something.

Stepping outside and double checking the front doors are locked Jaime heads across the street to the pay phone – the home doesn't provide anything that could be considered a 'luxury' - to call Jason, their 'house mother' to come pick him up. He's lucky that he's been allowed to get this job and keep it, considering the hours and the effort Jason puts in to make sure he's always available to pick him up.

Jaime leans against the cool glass of the phone booth after he's hung up, Jason probably going to be a while since Alex, one of the more volatile boys in the house had been involved in an 'incident', which in Alex's case generally means some kind of fight resulting in him disappearing somewhere and seriously, Jaime is sure they keep the local police in business with the amount of Alex-tracking they have to do. He hears they're considering some kind of GPS bracelet for the guy, which would suck but at least he'd be safe and Jack wouldn't have to go crazy with worry every single time.

It's a nice night, the sky clear of clouds and sprinkled with stars and it's nice to be alone, have some quiet time. Jaime stares at the front doors of his workplace, wondering if he should go and check they're locked again. He scans the building, the hideous yellow lettering gaudy and bright even in the dim light of the few street lamps in the parking lot.

His careless gazing leads him across the top of the store, hiding the glow of the city behind it and Jaime is sure his heart skips a beat when he realises there's someone up there, legs hanging over the edge, body a darkened silhouette.

Fuck.

Jaime spends a lot of time with 'different' people at the home, kids who nobody wants because they're not perfect or sweet and young any more and he's been around the longest, seen all the breakdowns and reunions and the desperate attempts to escape. He's found more than his share of bloodied wrists in the bathrooms, pale, clammy hands curled around bottles of medication or alcohol. But never in his seventeen years has Jaime felt so immediately responsible for someones life.

Maybe, maybe there's a chance whoever's up there is just enjoying the view, a tourist or late night photographer looking for the perfect shot but it's hardly the most obvious reason to be up there.

Costco is three storeys high, and three storeys is enough.

Briefly he considers calling the police, leave them to deal with it but they probably won't come, won't consider it important enough until there's a body on the ground and Jaime can't let that happen.

He tries to move quietly, hopefully out of the persons line of sight around to the back of the building, dodging out of the way of the sensor-lights and makes his way to the old stairs he often spends his break on, headphones in and body tapping out beats and basslines in an attempt to shed some of the excess energy he always seems to have.

The stairs creak a little under his weight and Jaime pauses, hoping the person hasn't heard.

When he reaches the top he stops, takes a deep breath and tries to think of what he could possibly say to convince the person this isn't the way, not have them jump off in a panic at his presence.

He comes a little closer, steps silent before stopping a few feet away from the person. The figure on the edge seems tiny and Jaime doesn't know it it's male or female, curled in on themselves.

“Hey, wait” He says as softly as he can.

The reaction from the person is instantaneous, the hooded figure spinning around and Jaime catches a glimpse of the gun in their hands and his breath catches in his throat.

“Fuck off” Is the raspy, breathy reply.

The person is a boy, eyes shining just slightly in the darkness, hair falling into his face and his fingers trembling and shit, Jaime was expecting a man at least, not someone who could pass for his age or even fucking younger. 

Jaime stays put, tries to look reassuring.

“I can't do that”

“I said fuck off”

The gun is suddenly pointed at him and Jaime immediately raises his hands, frightened. He might not want the boy to fall but he's not sure he's willing to take a bullet for his cause.

“Please put the gun down” Jaime coaxes, “No one needs to get hurt”

He stares the boy in the eye, tries to come off as unthreatening as possible.

“I just want to help”

The boys smiles at him then, an awful, cruelly twisted expression, lips drawn up over his teeth, gun still raised.

“I don't need any help.”

The boys does however, lower the gun and that's enough for Jaime to believe that maybe, just maybe this can end without bloodshed.

They stand off in silence, the boy not moving from the edge of the building, just staring at him as his fingers clutched tightly around the weapon in his lap.

“I'm Jaime” Jaime offers, because they have to start somewhere.

“Jaime.” The boy repeats. “Jaime, you don't need to know what my name is. We're not doing this. Please leave me alone.”

“I really can't” Jaime says and it's true, there's no way his conscience is going to let him leave the boy here to die.

The boys lets out a heavy sigh.

“Do you really want to watch?”

Jaime shakes his head. “I want you to come away from the edge, make the decision to keep going.”

Maybe he's never been as desperate as this boy is, nor as determined but in some of his darker moments Jaime has considered the same way out, even off this very same building. But he's not a very strong person, couldn't deal with the guilt and so he chooses to remain in the land of the living, keep carrying on.

He doesn't know this boy, doesn't know what's brought him here tonight but he'll be damned if he doesn't try to talk him out of this.

“You don't know me” Is the caustic reply, the boy swinging his legs back over the edge again and Jaime panics, rushing forward a few steps before the boy raises the gun behind him again.

“Don't you fucking dare, this is my decision, not yours”

“Fine” Jaime snaps, and then, in a moment of acting before thinking as he's usually prone to doing, he opens his mouth again.

“I'll come with you.”

The boys shoulders stiffen and he turns his head around to face Jaime again.

“Reverse psychology, really?”

Jaime wants to argue that technically, it isn't reverse psychology at all, but doesn't. This could be his way in.

“Maybe i'm just as ready as you are”

He isn't, of course. He has another closing shift tomorrow night and Aaron, the only person who could cover for him is out of town. He can't leave.

The boy raises an eyebrow, like he knows Jaime’s lying. He doesn't call him out on it though, just lowers the gun again and turns back towards the drop. This time he places the gun beside him and Jaime’s heartbeat seems to echo through his body as he considers his next move.

His hasty planning comes to a halt when the boy sighs heavily, picks up the gun, pockets it and climbs down from the ledge, eyes looking up at him as he walks away slowly at first, and then, with a final glance at Jaime as he reaches the stairs, he throws himself down them so fast Jaime’s frightened he's going to kill himself by falling down them anyway.

He doesn't follow, just watches the tiny boy race across the parking lot, down the street and disappear.


	2. Chapter 2

It takes Vic all of half an hour to make his way back home, stopping halfway to retch in the gutter, throw up the water he'd forced himself to drink that morning. He's a failure and he's stupid, so fucking stupid. Why didn't he check to make the stupid fucking store was closed, that no one was going to come out and decide they needed to be a fucking hero?

The only small, almost insignificant comfort he has is that it wasn't someones mother, or a man. Just a boy, who had they stood side by side, would most likely tower over him. Jaime the hero.

It's understandable, Vic wouldn't be too keen on leaving someone on the edge of a building either but fuck, the kid hadn't been that off-put but having a gun pointed at him.

His father had always told him that you don't point a gun at a man unless you intend to shoot him.

Another thing he's failed at.

He sits on the old, rickety porch out the back of their house, tries to stop his ragged breathing and ease the weight on his chest. _You're nothing, until we get our money we own you, understand?_

Sure, there's other buildings, hell, there's even some rope in the garage by his fathers painting supplies but it's not the same, it's not the plan he'd made. Vic isn't willing to compromise on how his life ends. It's either his terms exactly or regrettably in the case of tonight, not at all.

He creeps quietly back inside, stepping over the creaky step on his way upstairs and lies face down on his bed, breathing harsh and warm into the pillow below. He's supposed to be in paradise right now and he's not.

He can't keep it up for too long, body demanding fresh air and it's not like he can hope for sleep anyway, muscles tense with frustration and he has to do something, anything to make it stop, for a few minutes of peace.

Fumbling under his bed – the bathroom way too obvious of a hiding place to chance it, Vic reaches for the shoe box he's appropriated for well, certainly not shoes. It's where he keeps his varied collection of carefully bought or stolen razor blades, Mike's bone handled pocket knife and because he's intensely paranoid about any of his cuts getting infected, a healthy supply of antibacterial wash, gauze and bandages. He mightn't be afraid to tear himself apart but he wants them to heal cleanly in the end as long as he's still here.

It doesn't help, not really, just aches and stings and Vic's thankful his sheets are a dark navy blue because his hands are shaking too much to be neat, a few stray rivulets of blood running off his arm and into the cotton below but he can't bring himself to stop because at least it's something tangible, something no one can take away from him.

He's sick and he doesn't fucking care.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jaime stays on top of his workplace until he sees Jason’s admittedly like a 'potential serial killers' van, it's paint a dingy, off-shade of yellow pull into the parking lot.

He decides not to mention the boy with the gun, it'll only make more work for him, having to convince everyone that it's not an elaborate story, explain to his shrink for the millionth time that he's not putting on a show for attention. It's not like he's bound to run into the nameless, mostly shapeless figure again, anyway. Jaime highly doubts he's going to return here without making absolutely sure no ones around.

At least he's not on morning shifts, won't have to be there should the boy make good on his intentions.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Two weeks later and with a scattering of fresh cuts cluttering up his left arm which he's carefully bandaged and hidden under one of Mikes hoodies, Vic heads down to breakfast and to the news that they're going shopping as a family after his therapy session with Dr Mendelson.

“No” Is his immediate reply, buttering a singular piece of toast. “You guys go without me”

It's a fruitless request, his parents are smarter than that, have been advised to not leave him by himself, just in case the trauma gets to him and he tries something stupid. They're missing one son and they're not about to lose another.

The shopping wouldn't be so bad if he didn't have a session first, his therapist usually leaving him exhausted and strung out, keeps insisting on going over and over everything that's happened. He just wants to forget.

“It'll be nice” His mother says quietly from the kitchen table, mug of tea in her hands. “Go out as a family, you can help us pick a new TV for living room, you know your father knows fuck all about technology”

Vic smiles despite himself because it's true, technology is not a friend to his father at all and a new TV would be nice, their old one barely picking up the new digital signal.

But shopping means people that he doesn't know, being surrounded by them and apart from the occasional quick trip to the supermarket with his mother, he's barely able to go out for more than half and hour or so without panicking, less time if it's busy. Vic can't stand people behind him in the aisles, or next to him, or anywhere near him at all. He doesn't want to hear people talking or laughing or smiling. He loves his family though, and while he's still here, he can feel the tug of duty and loyalty to them. All they want from him is to try and well, nothing worse than what’s already happened could possibly happen and Vic often takes that into consideration.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“So, why don't we talk about how you're feeling today? Your mom mentioned you're going shopping after this, how do you think that will go?”

Dr Mendelson is probably a lovely woman, judging by the smile she always greets him with and the pleasant looking family photo hanging in the wall of her office but at this point, she is Vic's worst nightmare.

Well no, his worst nightmare are the ones that leave him screaming, waking up to find his father above him, desperately trying to wake him up which only terrifies him more, but Mendelson is a useless bitch and a thorn in his side assigned to him by the hospital because apparently he's 'at risk'.

“Well let's see” Vic says, faking a thoughtful expression, “I don't like people, I don't like going out and whenever I do I usually end up in the car having a panic attack freaking my parents out so maybe it's not gonna be the best fucking day of my life”

Mendelson reacts to his admittedly ridiculous behaviour as she always does, by plowing right on through.

“It's good that you're trying, making steps forward in the recovery process” She says sweetly, “You know your parents are very proud of you”

Vic just slings his legs up onto the stereotpyical red leather chair every crazy-person doctors he's ever been to seems to have and remains silent because he knows where this conversation is going, where it always fucking goes.

“Now, why don't I read some things out to you and you can chime in with how you're feeling.”

Vic hasn't chimed in once the entire three months he's been here. He just sits, watches the words she's saying turn into real-life, replaying everything in excruciating detail. Sometimes he gets lost, finds himself curled into a tiny corner of Mendelsons office, tears down his cheeks and unable to breathe and it's then that she looks most satisfied, offering him a glass of water and tapping away at her computer, no doubt making notes about just what makes him react.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jaime tries to force the grimace off his face as he steps through the front doors of Costco on Saturday morning, sun shining brightly at his back.

He'd been called in, and he's not about to turn down more money even if it means having to deal with daytime customers. He's thankful it's not the earliest shift, still paranoid about turning up to the boys body splattered across the pavement. It's probably a little bit morbid, but Jaime has found himself wondering exactly what a splattered person would look like, if crime shows are doing it right. It's not something he can Google, their internet use is carefully monitored, and looking up dead people would be a very large red flag.

Slipping off his jacket and shoving it into the lockers, signing in and grabbing his name tag Jaime searches for his happy salesperson face which isn't too far away now that he's in the false lighting of the building and he really does like to help people.

He's in electronics, not his usual post but he's familiar enough with their product to be able to help out and Bob, their store manager is in today as well so all should be good. Being the bulk retailer that they are there's not always a lot of people who need help, so Jaime spends the first two hours of his shift dusting the display models and hefting boxes onto shelves.

Jaime’s in the middle of untangling a rather large tangle of cables behind his desk – where they came from or what they're for he's got no freaking idea - when there's a cough from behind him.

“Excuse me, can you help us?”

He spins around on his chair to see a middle-aged man looking a tad out of place. A tiny little part of Jaime is happy that the man looks somewhat Mexican, which okay being San Diego isn't exactly uncommon but still, Jaime’s parents had been Mexican, and something about this man seems nice, homely.

“Sure, i'm Jaime, what can I help you with?”

“We're looking for a new TV but i'm afraid i've got no idea and the family,” The man gestures behind him to a woman and a hoodie-clad boy with their back to them, pointing up at the displays. “Think they know what they want but really, none of us have any clue”

Jaime smiles, standing up from his desk, abandoning his cable-ball. “Show me what you're looking at and i'll see if I can help you guys out” He says cheerfully, and the man looks relieved as they head over to the display area.

The woman and boy turn around as they approach and Jaime’s about to ask where they're looking to put this new TV of theirs when he catches the boys eyes and has to stop himself from loosing his professional demeanour. He knows those eyes, and the hair and lithe hoodie-swathed figure all match up.

It's the boy from the roof.


	3. Chapter 3

Vic leaves his appointment tired and pissed off, as is the norm. His mom's waiting for him in the reception area though so he tries to pull himself together. He might have a temper but he absolutely hates snapping at her, not when she's smiling at him so fondly, like she really thinks him coming here is helping, is the solution.

“Everything go alright?” She asks, as she always does and Vic forces a sort-of smile onto his lips, nods his head obediently.

“Was okay” He mumbles, curling his hands tighter in his hoodie pockets.

His mom pats him on the shoulder and it's only because it's so ingrained into him as part of their routine that he doesn't flinch, just lets the simple touch echo through his body. It's his mother and he knows it hurts her when he thinks only of other hands that aren't hers. It hurts him as well. _You won't forget us, will ya?_

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the car he doesn't really pay attention to where they're going, bowing his head, slipping his headphones in and drowning out the sound of the crackly radio, pulling a hesitant signal from across the border, the station his father grew up with the Spanish equivalent of talk back radio, filled with music and voices Vic has to try all too hard to understand. He knows enough of their mother tongue to get by but he knows that by San Diego standards his conversational skills are laughable.

It was always Mike who'd picked it up and carried it with him, even to all the wrong places.

So of course when the momentum of the car comes to a stop and his father tugs the keys from the ignition, Vic looks up and immediately cringes. They are not at fucking Costco. There are a million and one places that sell TVs, why the hell are they here?

The answer is that things are cheap and Vic knows this, but shit, Costco is the last place he wants to be, the tall building looming up in front of him as he unbuckles his seatbelt and steps from the car on suddenly shaky legs, recalling every last detail of his last visit.

He prays to every god he's ever known that he won't meet the boy from the roof. Jaime. Vic remembers his name, the way it rolled off the boys tongue as he'd introduced himself, so sure that he could persuade Vic out of his plans.

Which he had but only because Vic doesn't have time for some other kids emo shit, didn't believe him for a second when Jaime had said he'd jump with him and Vic hates people who lie to get what they want.

“Vic?”

His fathers voice breaks into his thoughts and Vic jumps, realising his parents have started walking and he's still by the car. He walks quickly to catch up, tugging his hood up over his head and nudging his hair from behind his ears. He's not taking any chances.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jaime manages to keep his composure as he discusses possible television options with Mr 'Fuentes, but you can call me Victor', eventually deciding on a nice thirty two inch plasma with inbuilt digital tuner. His wife jokes with him about her husbands lack of technological ability and Jaime likes these people, doesn't see anything so awful that could drive the boy to the top of this building. The boy only looks at him once, big brown eyes boring into his skull with an almost intimidating intensity, just long enough for the two of them to become acutely aware that they know the other before his head drops down and he steps back behind his mother.

Jaime likes to think he's good at reading people, seeing through cobwebbed lies to true intentions and nothing about this man or his wife seems odd, no signs they're putting up a front, a facade of a happy family.

He directs them to his desk before heading out the back to find their TV, his luck being that it's the only model not on the floor and since he'd packed out this morning and hadn't seen it, it's probably buried in the back underneath a mountain of fridges or something.

It's cool in the storeroom, his skin prickling as he tries to focus on the task at hand and not at the fact that somehow the universe has bought the boy from the roof to him.

What's he supposed to do, write the kid a note? Congratulations on not being dead? It's times like this Jaime wishes he had a phone, could let the boy know he's around if he ever needs to talk and hell, even if the boy never contacted him he'd still feel a lot better knowing he's tried.

Jaime sighs and fumbles with the paper he'd written the TVs product number down on, flips it over and folds it in half, reaches for the pen he always keeps in his front pocket.

At the very least he needs to let the boy know that despite not knowing him from a loaf of bread, he's happy he's still alive.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

God is a bastard. Vic shouldn't have prayed, because now the universe and it's higher powers have deigned to give him the exact opposite of what he wanted.

He wanted a nice, quick trip to Costco with his family without running into the one person who knows he wants to die.

So of course, the only person in the electronics department is Jaime. Overly helpful, heroic salesperson Jaime.

The minute their eyes meet Vic knows that his hoodie and hair isn't hiding him at all, Jaime recognises him and by some tiny miracle, doesn't immediately open his mouth and spill the beans.

A small part of Vic is hesitantly appreciative.

Jaime is for all intents and purposes actually quite a good salesperson, answering his fathers stupid questions and joking with his mother, a genuine smile on his face. But Vic knows that Jaime is watching him even as Vic himself tries to step away, make it clear that he has no business bringing up their previous encounter.

As Jaime disappears out the back to get their selected TV, Vic's heart is racing, sweaty palms slipping against sweaty fingers as he tries to figure out just what to do.

He can't run because then his parents would be concerned and that might trigger Jaime to say something but staying gives Jaime more time to think of something appropriate to say.

So Vic stays, eyes trained on the storeroom door.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Hey, I know this probably sounds crazy but I don't have a phone although if you wanted, 829-655-893, ask for me. No one who answers will ask you any stupid questions if you're worried about that.  
I always close on Tuesdays and Thursdays if you wanted to meet somewhere closer to the earth to talk. I can listen or you if don't want to talk i'm pretty damn good at not shutting up so there's that._

_Please don't go. - Jaime_

_PS. Enjoy the TV.  
PPS. I am not trying to be creepy I swear_


	4. Chapter 4

Back home in his room – Vic's pointedly avoiding helping his parents figure out how to connect the TV, instead pacing back and forth between the bounds of the ancient 'Persian' rug that covers the ugly green carpet of his room. He's confused.

They'd been on their way out, TV box resting on one of the rickety probably-a-safety-hazard Costco trolleys, money paid and warranty signed. Nothing bad had happened. Nothing had been said. He'd kept a safe distance.

Except that just as they'd been walking out the door, super salesperson Jaime had come jogging over to them, holding out a folded piece of paper to Vic that he'd announced had help desks special number on it but by the look he'd been given, Vic had known it was more than that, had manned up and taken the paper from the boys hand, carefully avoiding touching the other.

He'd shoved the note into his pocket and avoided looking at it until he was alone in his room and now, as he plays the words over and over in his mind, Vic's not sure what to do.

The first question that bobbles to the top of his head is what kind of serial killer fucking freak doesn't own a phone these days? Jaime doesn't look particularly crazy, or exceedingly religious.

Secondly, why the hell does he care at all about what Vic's doing? It's not hurting him. In fact, what Vic's doing, or trying to do with his life has got absolutely nothing to do with this kid he met on a roof one time. So why then, does he feel kind of well, bad?

It's a very unsettling feeling. Vic is not unfamiliar with nice, caring people but with everything that's happened he's a lot more wary of their intentions. Everyone has an angle.

_It's a fair trade, don't you think? Much more fun for us, a real treat._

At the same time, a tiny little part of Vic wants to take Jaime up on his offer. In all honest truth maybe he's not quite as into being dead as he'd like to be and his mind seems to know that, the little voice at the back of mind telling him to take the opportunity to at least try and that's the most frightening thing of all.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It's been three days and Jaime hasn't heard from the boy from the roof. He wishes at least, that he knew the boys name. He tosses a few names around in his mind, Aaron or Mark or Chris or something more Spanish, like Alberto or Rodrigo. Maybe Pablo. Jaime's always wanted to meet a Pablo.

Briefly, he considers just referring to the boy from the roof as TBFTF or 'tuhbuhfuhtuhfuh' but it doesn't sound all that cool so he doesn't.

School drags on as it always does, Alex's alarm ringing out at precisely six every morning, him and Jack still throwing themselves out of bed and to the shower like they haven't been living at the home for almost a year now, aren’t as much strangers to Jaime but family.

It's not exactly a typical group home, Jaime’s eavesdropped often enough to know that is the last stop for nearly everyone here. No one wants them, they're too old, too messed up, not cute enough. Possess none of the traits a perfect adoptive family is looking for. They could never pass as someones biological child. And they're all teenage boys, some of whom need to go in pairs. The last time someone had come, just interested in Alex, things had to say the least, not gone well.

For the most part though, living in a shared room with six others doesn't bother Jaime all that much and the social workers aren't half as awful as they're often portrayed to be. It's probably because this is the last stop for them as well, deemed not quite right to deal with the nicer side of things, perhaps a little too alternative, too willing to give chances.

They're all his family now, and Jaime would never trade this life for the one he had before it. Never.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As the final customer grabs their bags and heads away from his register Jaime lets out a tired sigh, stretching his arms over his head and casting a glance at the clock on his screen.

Five more minutes, and judging by single car in the parking lot it's unlikely anyone's going to be making a last minute dash for a hundred rolls of toilet paper or an economy sized box of bacon.

Jaime can't help but keep a careful eye outside anyway, just in the boy turns up.

Every night after he's called Jason, Jaime carefully makes his way to the roof, just to be sure.

He's always partly relieved that the boy isn't there and partly worried about where else he might be, if he's chased him somewhere else where no one will find him.

Every morning, Jaime makes a habit of checking the paper Kyle, their other 'house mother' leaves on the kitchen table for them for the death notices just in case, Kellin and Jack always arguing over who gets the cartoons first and Alex carefully tugging the crossword and sudoku section out, curling into his spot on top of the breakfast bar.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It's always cold. Bitter, bone-chilling, soul-crushing cold. Shades of grey, beige and more grey.

Eerie silence, broken only by the rattling of chains, keys and the more cheerful, upbeat tones of the families in line in front of them.

Every second weekend, they make the drive to visit Mike.

Vic hates the cold, hates the endless waiting and more than anything, hates the fact that the visiting area for the younger offenders is separated from the general prison visiting area by only a few flimsy sheets of fly screen locked in place with cheap aluminium.

It's almost unbearable, to see the hulking forms of the rough, prison worn men on the other side, most of them with gang affiliations.

But he makes do because it's Mike, his baby brother and he owes him at least this much.

His parents always go first, pulling the taller, lankier frame of his brother into their arms, his mother always tearful but smiling, his father stoic and silent and Vic, Vic just lets Mike rest a warm palm on the top of his head, murmurs an almost silent greeting.

He'd like a hug from Mike more than anything but he can't, not here.

They make small talk, Mike unwilling to share too much about how he spends his time, wants to know about them, about whether the San Diego weather is holding up to it's usual perfection, is the new TV big enough to watch football properly on.

It's almost like they're out somewhere, maybe the little cafe down the road from their house, just waiting for their churros and hot chocolate.

After a little while, their parents leave to gather the little box of things they always bring for Mike, clothes and chocolate and the occasional book, all of which take a good twenty minutes to be searched by security.

They sit in silence, Vic shifting uncomfortably on the hard plastic chair under Mikes unwavering stare. They've never really discussed what had happened beyond giving evidence in court and it lies between them, a vast ocean of things neither of them want to talk about but at the same time they can't talk about anything else either.

Vic knows that Mike will never be able to look at him the same, without the new, depthy expression that dwells in the corner of his eyes and the guilt that he knows lurks in every pore of his brothers body.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When it's time to leave, Vic clenches his jaw and digs his nails into his palms as he steps forward and gives Mike's shoulder the tiniest nudge with his head. It's the best he can do right now.


	5. Chapter 5

Another week passes and Jaime kind of forgets about the boy from the roof, caught up in a pile of assignments and all too little time to do them.

He tends to leave things to the very last minute – or at least the day before.

His grades are alright, sit nicely with his clean record and one day Jaime hopes they'll be his ticket out of here. Maybe not to college, but to a career and a home and family of his own.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A week later and the cuts on Vic's wrist have mostly healed over, just a few lingering scabs and a sense of disappointment almost, that they're gone.

He sits through another torture session with Mendelson, makes a trip with his father to the hardware store and finally gets around to washing his sheets, all with a certain boy on his mind.

A head pokes into his room, long dark hair so reminiscent of his brothers that it almost hurts to acknowledge it.

“Mama wants to know if we're eating downstairs, or up here?”

The voice and attached body belong to Tony, the only person Vic would actually consider a friend at this point, the only person who has been unfailingly there from the beginning and who never tries to push him into processing things faster than he does.

He was Mike's friend first but Vic's never been opposed to wedging his way into his brothers life with as much fanfare as possible and they'd become a trio of fast times and stupid decisions and when it had turned out that Mike's self-confessed bisexual tendencies had become more Tonysexual tendencies of course Vic had tried to be both supportive and a cockblock, because that's the way he rolls. Or how he had.

“Upstairs” Vic answers automatically, knows that if he goes downstairs it'll just be weird, his parents and him and Mike's boyfriend but no Mike. He knows his mother loves Tony like her own son – potentially more, but it's just plain old awkward to all eat together.

Tony nods before his disappears again and Vic hears him hit the creaky step as he heads back down to the kitchen to relay the news.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After they've eaten Vic manages to pull himself together enough to settle down on the floor and lean back against his bed, let Tony sit on the bed behind him, knees resting ever so gently against his shoulders as the younger runs a brush through the knotted birds nest that Vic knows is his hair right now.

It's one of the few kinds of affection that don't make him panic, want to kick and scream and cry. They've always done this, a slightly off-kilter friendship thing that would usually fill in the time when Mike would disappear to the shower and the two of them would be left to entertain each other.

Now it's become one of the few moments of peace Vic has, the two of them sitting in a rare easy silence, the brush occasionally snagging in a knot and Tony's careful fingers making it disappear.

It gives Vic time to consider Jaime and the note for what must be the thousandth time.

He knows the best thing to do is leave well enough alone, carry on with his intentions like nothing had happened, like they'd never met on the roof that night.

But he can't. The voice in the back of his head is relentless in it's insistence that he try and Vic's not sure how long it's going to be before he gives in to one thing or the other.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Another closing shift and once again the store is empty, Jaime reduced to using some of his spare change to procure an energy drink from one of the vending machines, sipping it leisurely as he drums his fingers on the counter top.

He's dusted, he's swept, hell he's even gone up and down polishing all the silver railings that create the register lanes, cloth wrapped around his hand as he'd created his own entertainment by trying to perform the task in the most hand job-like fashion possible.

There's half an hour to go and there is legitimately nothing for him to do but stand around and look dazzlingly attractive.

Jaime puts his drink down, turns to stare idly out the doors, silently hoping that a wild customer will appear to occupy the time left before he can start counting out his drawer.

The parking lot is empty, as per usual. Except that it isn't.

Off to the right, a small, lone figure is making it's way along one of the concrete dividers, balancing precariously with each step and Jaime's heart jumps, squinting into the darkness and unsure of whether or not to hope it's who he thinks it is.


	6. Chapter 6

Vic knows what he's doing is quite possibly the most stupid thing he's ever done – he's taking up Jaime on his offer.

There's no way he could've brought himself to call the number the other boy had provided, can't stand the idea of having to talk to someone else but Costco, Costco he can do.

He's still not entirely sure why he's making his way across the parking lot, torn between turning around and disappearing back into the suburbs or continuing to the glass doors where he can see Jaime at a register, alone.

The parking lots empty too, which at least helps a little. He'd tried to time things so he'd miss any potential customers, but not be too late to catch Jaime.

He makes a tiny detour on the way to balance carefully on the line dividers, subconsciously wishing they were higher and casting a long glance to the top of the building. Perhaps he should've bought the gun along, not left it in it's hiding place at the top of his cupboard.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jaime doesn't panic very often but as the boy from the roof draws ever closer, he might just be freaking right the fuck out.

He might've hoped that the boy would come to him but now that it's actually happening he has no idea what to do.

Technically he's still at work, working. He can't just drop everything to talk to the boy, he still has to wait until close and then do his drawer. What if the boy doesn't hang around?

The doors slide open with a mechanical whir you can only ever hear in the night when it's completely quiet and the boy steps hesitantly through them and Jaime just point blank stops thinking.

In the bright, unnatural light of the store the boy seems so much smaller than he remembers, dressed in clothes that are way too big and hang off his skinny frame, a few lengths of hair poking out from underneath the drawn-up hood of his hoodie, hands buried in the large pockets.

The boys head lifts up slowly, reminds Jaime of the stray cats he sometimes sees dwelling in the gutter outside of the parking lot, timid and ready to bolt at the slightest breath of wind.

Their eyes meet and they stare at each other, frozen.

Jaime's never been very good at staying still or silent though and his tongue betrays him as he shifts awkwardly on his feet, hands clenched tightly onto the plastic of his coat-hanger container.

“Hi!” He says, voice too loud for the situation and the boy jumps, head spinning back to the door and then to Jaime again and he takes a step back as if considering making a run for it and fuck, Jaime is not going to fuck this up.

“Don't go” He says more quietly, brings his hands up to rest them on the counter top, trying to appear unthreatening as possible.

Behind the boys head he can see a car pulling into the lot and he silently curses them because this is far more important than any late night sale.

The boy follows his gaze and his expression changes and this time he takes a hesitant step forward and Jaime tries to decide just what the fuck to do. He has to serve this customer, but he can't lose the boy either.

“Hey,” He whispers, acquiring the boys attention once more. “I finish in like, ten minutes if you want to wait around the back”

“It's safe there,” He adds, “But please don't go on the roof”

The boy nods just once, spinning on his heels and quickly disappearing.

Jaime can only hope he hangs around.

It takes a few minutes for his lone customer to appear, a middle-aged man who apparently needed a mega-economy pack of paper towels right at this very moment and Jaime completes the transaction without any issue, counting the mans change back with a smile and wishes him a nice night, all the while trying to stop his mind from racing and his eyes from flickering to the front door as if he expects a body to thud onto the pavement outside them at any given moment.

He's never counted his drawer more quickly in his life, tapping the numbers into the keypad with an alarming velocity, folding the notes and sending them to the safe room via the magic tube system (Jaime knows it has a very nice, technical name but to him, it's the magic tube) before he's locking the front door and heading out the back, grabbing his stuff from his locker and flicking off the central lights before he heads to the security door that leads outside, to where the boy is hopefully waiting.

Jaime opens the door slowly, not sure if he actually wants to know whether they boy's out there or not, peering hesitantly into the dimly lit darkness, a few security lights bouncing off the asphalt. He can't see anyone and he comes properly outside, closes the door with a metallic clink behind him, the alarm system kicking in as he let's his keys thud into the drop box a few steps away.

He turns around again, eyes scanning and realising that he might just be alone until his eyes catch the bottom of the stairs that lead to the roof. Sitting a few steps up and not on the roof, is said boy.

Jaime rolls his tongue around, mouth suddenly ridiculously dry.

What the fuck does he do now? It's not like he's written down a bunch of inspiring things to convince the boy that he should you know, not try and kill himself or anything.

Step one, Jaime decides, is to shuffle a little closer. The boy's just watching him, eyes glinting in the light once again akin to the cats that call the streets their home.

“Hi” Jaime says again, softly though, he's learnt from his previous attempt.

The boy just stares and Jaime comes a little closer, sits down on the bottom rung of the staircase, makes sure to leave enough space for the boy to get past him to run if he wants. There's nothing worse than not being to escape.

The silence stretches on again between them long enough that Jaime doesn't think the boy will say anything at all.

“I can talk, if you want” Jaime says quietly, “I probably talk too much actually people are always telling me to shut up but like, there's worse things I could be doing you know like being a murderer and hell that sounds really creepy I promise i'm not going kill you and fuck, i'll shut up now”

Jaime briefly considers if he could just remove his tongue from his mouth because he is an idiot.

But there's just the tiniest little huff of breath from the boy and Jaime thinks he might just think his rambling is kind of funny.

They sit in silence a little longer, before the boy finally speaks.

“M'Vic” He says, in this tiny little raspy voice.

Vic. The boy from the roofs name is Vic.

“Vic” Jaime repeats.

“It's nice to meet you, i'm Jaime”

There's another tiny huff of breath.

“I know” Vic says, and then they fall back into silence, listening to the sound of sirens in the distance.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the end, Vic (Which is a much nicer name than boy from the roof) doesn't end up saying much more than that, just stays curled on his step, occasionally nodding his head to whatever it is that springs into Jaime’s mind to say because Vic is yet to tell him to shut the fuck up.

He talks about soccer and the crazy lady who always comes into buy carrots in bulk with her pet mice in her hair and how much he likes raspberry soda as opposed to orange and Vic just listens, head bowed. Or at least Jaime hopes he's listening.

The only real, proper information they exchange is that Vic is seventeen, a year older than him. Jaime's a little surprised because in all honestly he'd thought Vic was maybe fifteen, his tiny, slender figure making him seem so much younger.


	7. Chapter 7

After that night Jaime doesn't see or hear from Vic for two whole weeks and it makes him paranoid, everyday picking up the paper just to make sure there's no gruesome news story about another unfortunate adolescent suicide.

Work is fine and school is tolerable, as it always is. He helps out around the house when he can, fills in his spare time trying to bring the dead, decrepit garden in the backyard to life.

The seasons are changing and it's getting colder, and Jaime hopes that Vic isn't wandering the streets in these shorter, darker days.

\-------------------------------------------------------------

Vic spends two weeks pointedly avoiding even thinking about Jaime. Or rather, he tries to. He wants to pretend it didn't happen, that he didn't have a moment of weakness that led him to sitting out the back of Costco listening to some picture perfect boy say the most stupid fucking things about amusing customers and the kind of soda he likes.

Except that he can't not think about Jaime because his incessant chatter had be an almost welcome break and Jaime hadn't poked and prodded him for conversation or answers to the questions he knows the other boy has. He'd just let Vic listen and kept his distance, like he knew how important it was.

Vic's spent every single one of the last fourteen days trying to sum up the courage to go back or at least call. He doesn't know what's driving him but he's had a an alright few days, more hours of sleep than he usually gets so maybe that's it.

His appointments with Mendelson continue to be awful as they always are and more than once Vic finds himself curled under his bed with a pillow and blanket, hiding in the solidity of the darkness as he tries to hold himself together.

_You're safe. They can't get you._ Are the words he repeats to himself like a mantra as he fights his body's instincts to run, run as far away from this town as he can get, pushes back against the way his stomach rolls and his muscles tremble and strangled whimpers try to drive themselves from his throat.

_Look sweetheart, i've called up all my friends so they can come and see just how pretty you are, aren't you happy to see them?_

All of the doctors he's met call them anxiety, panic attacks but to him the only word is terror. He's terrified and it only ever stops when he's simply too tired to fight any more.

It's why, in a rare event, he's too exhausted to be as stressed out about visiting Mike as he usually is. He knows it's just under his skin but it's an itch he just can't be bothered to scratch.

He greets his brother with only a nod of his head, curling into himself on the cold plastic of the bench as his parents ask the same questions they always do and Mike deflects the way he always does.

Vic hopes in his heart of hearts that nothing untoward has been happening to Mike while he's here, that no ones forced him into anything.

Despite everything Mike is still his baby brother and it's still Vic's job to protect him, even when he can't.

As his parents leave to get their gifts for Mike passed through, it's just the two of them.

“Hey” Mike says, lowering his head and leaning forward across the table a little, eyes searching for the contact Vic's terrified of giving.

“Hi” Vic whispers, letting his eyes meet Mike's for barely a moment but it must be enough because Mike gives him this pained almost smile.

“I miss you, you know” Mike continues, and no, they're not doing this.

“Don't” Vic says pitifully, because he doesn't want to talk about anything, not how they feel or what's happened or anything at all. He doesn't want to remember any of it.

“Please” Mike says, voice cracking on the last syllable and part of Vic cracks with him because it's not all about him, is equally about Mike, a shared experience. But he just can't, not with all the other families in this room and the men through the screen.

Surely though, he can stop being selfish for just minute, try a little bit harder.

Slowly, so excruciatingly slowly Vic pulls his hands out from his hoodie, wipes them off on his jeans like his sweaty palms would be the worst thing Mike's had to touch today.

Hesitantly, he offers them across the table to his brother in invitation.

Mike approaches the situation with equal hesitation, tattooed hands carefully curling around Vic's and Vic bodily flinches, knees banging against the underside of the table, jerking his hands away as Mike lets go instantly.

He tries again, presses his elbows against the table, braces his knees. Mike's fingers tangle around his once more and Vic clenches his eyes shut, can't stand to look at them.

They're so different. His own hands are small and broad, unmarked honey skin a rough contrast to Mike's long slender fingers, a shade lighter than his own and ribboned with black, covering Vic's hands like a blanket.

He wasn't expecting Mike's hands to be so warm, so alive. So gentle.

They don't say anything more, just sit joined together until their parents return and Vic doesn't miss the look of shock on their faces as they stare. No doubt they think it's progress, but Vic isn't so sure.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Two days later and Vic's got Jaime's note in one hand and his phone in the other.

He doesn't, doesn't, doesn't want to but he does. It's just the idea of anyone but Jaime answering is almost too much too bear, what would he even say?

He doesn't want Jaime's parents to think their son is making friends with someone crazy.

It occurs to him then, that he could look up the phone number, see where Jaime lives. If it's even a real number at all. It won't really help the possibility of Jaime not answering, but maybe it'll settle him a little.

He pulls up the search on his phone, carefully taps the numbers in and hits go.

The result that immediately pops up makes Vic go back, check the number to make sure it's right. Then he clicks on the page at the very top of the results, biting his lip as he does.

_San Diego Department of Children and Families Gordon Avenue Boys Accommodation Centre_

He'd think it was a joke, just a random number Jaime had written but somehow Vic knows it's the right one. The reason Jaime himself doesn't have a phone.

There's a whole web page devoted to the home but Vic doesn't read any of it, doesn't want to know. He's got the information he needs even if he suddenly doesn't want it.

The weird little pang in his chest as he comes to terms with the fact that Jaime doesn't have a home, might not even have a family at all is proof enough that Vic's not lost the empathy his mother always praised him for having, for being such a caring son.

He dials the numbers and presses call before he can talk himself out of it.

For a fleeting moment as the line rings on Vic sort of hopes no one will answer so he can tell himself he tried but it didn't work out.

“Hello?”

Fuck. The voice doesn't belong to Jaime, Vic knows that.

“C-could I speak to Jaime please?”

Vic does his best to not sound as freaked out as he is.

“You want to talk to Jaime?” The voice echoes, tone bordering on incredulous. At least it sounds like another boy, not somebody in charge who'd be more interested in asking questions.

“Yeah” Vic says, bouncing his left foot up and down.

“One moment please” The boy says smoothly, and there's a few thuds that Vic assumes is the phone being put down.

“Jaime you son of a bitch there's someone on the phone for you!” The boy hollers in the background and then there's more thudding and banging and yelling even further in the distance before the phone's picked up again.

“Hello?”

Vic hates that he's relieved to hear Jaime's voice on the other end of line.

“Hi” Is all he can find to say, the tiny syllable ghosting it's way out of his mouth.

There's a pause, Jaime's breath rattling down the line like he's come running from somewhere.

“Vic?”

“It's me”

Vic is suddenly hit the the realisation that he has no idea why he called, no plans of what to say.

“Vic” Jaime chirps brightly, “You called”

“Yeah”

Vic really, really has no idea what to say and Jaime is no help, remaining quiet on his end.

“Uh” Vic says and Jaime laughs a little and it surprises Vic, because laughter is something he hasn't heard in a good long while.

“What's up?” Jaime says, voice careful like he might be afraid that Vic's called him from the top of a bridge or something. Understandable.

“Could you talk?” Vic finds himself asking, words slipping out of his mouth in easy betrayal.

“Could I talk?” Jaime repeats back and fuck, this was a stupid fucking idea. Who is he to bother Jaime in the middle of the night sounding like the crazy person he knows he is.

“I love to talk” Jaime says and a voice in the background breaks into laughter and Vic stiffens, doesn't want someone else listening in.

“One sec,” Jaime says, “Gotta get away from a few prowling eavesdroppers”

Vic waits, still convinced this was an awful, awful idea.

There's the sound of a door opening and closing and loud footsteps before something creaks and Vic presumes Jaime's found himself a place away from prying eyes.

“Okay” Jaime says, “You will never guess what someone bought today seriously”


End file.
